


Spangle the Banner

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PWP, Repression, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6012976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Crimebusters meeting, Rorschach works out some frustration with the Comedian's 'help'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spangle the Banner

**Author's Note:**

> It Came From the Depths of Google Docs: An old kinkmeme fic that I'm not sure I ever posted.

It's been a difficult day and Rorschach isn't sure why. He threads a new bobbin into his machine and mulls it over. Up the same time to a dawn chorus of shrieks and slamming doors, same breakfast of porridge oats and water, same trek to the factory, same vile slippery fabric under his hands.

The first meeting of the Crimebusters is this evening, which is the only thing out of the ordinary, but Rorschach is not concerned about that. He doesn't expect the coalition of "heroes" to go far, and thus it warrants little of his attention. He only agreed to attend at all for Nite Owl's sake.

No, he is just inordinately uncomfortable, acutely aware of his body and not in the adrenaline-drenched, practical way. He shifts at his stool, practiced hands still feeding the undergarments under the needle without a hitch. He feels too hot, too big for his skin. 

Over the course of the day it only gets worse, exacerbated by a new range of lacy basques that are frustrating to construct and give his disgust a white-hot edge. When he finally returns home, he almost considers touching himself.

He quenches that urge with a freezing cold shower.

Later, he is leaning against the opulent fireplace in Metropolis' mansion. The smell of charred paper hangs in the air and thin slivers of blackened map have settled over the expensive-looking furniture. Nite Owl is somewhere talking with Metropolis and Ozymandias; Manhattan and his lady friend have left. Through the enormous windows, he can see the Comedian talking with Sally Jupiter's girl.

He doesn't like how she looks at him—teenage flirtation, unsubtle and shallow. Rorschach bristles to himself. She does not appreciate him for the American hero he is, sees him merely a target to test her fledging wiles upon.

Rorschach is about to go contribute his presence to their conversation when Sally Jupiter herself breaks up the situation for him, whisking her daughter away and into the back of a car in a flurry of fur and tobacco smoke. The Comedian watches them retreat, body language muddled and confusing to Rorschach's eye.

Then he shrugs, turns to face the window, and stares directly at Rorschach. Rorschach is suddenly aware of how exposed he is, well-lit and on display, neatly framed in the window. He pushes away from the mantle, stands up straight.

Outside, the Comedian slides a cigar from a pouch on his belt. He breaks eye contact to duck his head and light it, the bright flare cupped by his gloved hand, lips moving around the cigar. The heat that Rorschach has been contending with all day once again stirs, pounding in his throat, and elsewhere.

He slips out of the room before the Comedian looks up again.

In a room off the main hallway, Rorschach hears Nite Owl's earnest voice, catches a glimpse of brown and grey as he strides past the open door. He remembers the hand on his chest from earlier in the evening, the tug of his collar, and inhales sharply. Remembers what he was being held back from, and succumbs to a shiver, head to toe.

His stomach muscles tighten, his thighs brace, and deep in his pockets, he curls his hands into fists. He can no longer deny that he is inexplicably, disgustingly aroused, and has been all day. He ducks outside—the cool air is a relief but not a cure—and heads around the side of the building to try and clear his head.

The Comedian is there, leaning against the wall, cigar in hand and one foot propped up against the wall. There's a messy bootprint on the white stucco. He doesn't say anything, just eyes Rorschach up and down and gives an impudent chuckle, snorting out a cloud of cigar smoke. 

He curls his mouth around his liquor flask and Rorschach's heart-rate spikes. "What are you looking at," he snarls, desperately hoping to break into a flood of adrenaline, something familiar and manageable.

The Comedian grins, unperturbed. "So you're really gonna try and start something with me, huh?" He twists his cigar out on the wall, leaving a circle of ash. "What is it? Want to protect your precious notion of justice like she's a real lady? Well, I got news for you kid: she's a whore. Puts out to the highest bidder every time."

It's laughably obvious bait, but that doesn't stop Rorschach from bristling. He chooses to remain silent, attempting to ride out the waves of indignation. 

" _Justice matters_ ," the Comedian says in a mocking approximation of Rorschach's growl. "Gee, I sure am lucky your boyfriend was there to hold you back, or ya really woulda had me." He hawks and spits at the grass, then takes another swig of liquor. 

That trips it—a rush of temper and adrenaline, and a glimmering edge of something he resolutely does not identify as fear—and he steps up, furious. "Nite Owl is not my keeper, nor my _boyfriend_."

"Oh-ho." The Comedian tucks his flask away. "So it ain't only Lady Justice you got a hard-on for, huh?" 

Rorschach convulses in horror before his brain catches up, before he realizes that there's no way the Comedian can know he's... his trench coat covers everything, how...

"Holy shit." The Comedian roars in laughter, far too loud. "I was just fucking with you, kid. Jeez, I didn't need to know I had another generation of costumed queers on my hands."

Rorschach thinks about twisting the Comedian's arm behind his back, pushing him against the wall and knocking the obscene commentary out of him. The Comedian opens his mouth again, and Rorschach barrels into him before he can speak. Overpowering him is far easier than it should be. 

"How drunk are you," Rorschach mutters in his ear, tightening his hand on the Comedian's wrist and pressing him into the wall with his hip. He feels a little lightheaded at the contact, the pressure, the taut sinew in his grip. He smells cigar smoke and whiskey and warmed leather.

"Drunk enough to not give half a fuck," the Comedian drawls. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through Rorschach, nothing but provocative. "Saw you watching me, before. That your deal? Some kinda peeping Tom, huh?"

Rorschach decides that doesn't need any kind of a response. He leans more heavily against the Comedian's bulk; the pounding in his ears and throat and between his legs is almost unbearable, only heightened by the Comedian's blunt teasing, and he jerks his hips before he can stop himself.

The Comedian turns, breaking Rorschach's hold with ease. He leans back, eyes dark and glittering behind the domino mask. "What is it you want, kid?"

Rorschach squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw. What he wants is relief from this sickness. He forces himself not to palm at his own crotch, shudders out a breath and then slams himself into the Comedian, grinding against his thigh in a long, hard motion. 

"Fucking finally," the Comedian says. His meaty hands are working at Rorschach's slacks, the zipper yanked down and one suspender popped free so he can haul him out of his underwear. "Thought tonight was gonna be a total waste of time."

The chill night air just makes him harder. Rorschach can't look; he knows it will only make him feel ill, and he'd rather not have any visuals for his conscience to thrash him with later. The Comedian holds him carelessly, gloves digging into the tender flesh, but the pain is almost welcome. It keeps him grounded enough to not enjoy this.

Some fumbling as the Comedian shifts his stance, legs wider apart, the metallic tear of another zipper—and a new heat presses against Rorschach's own. He gasps, hips again bucking of their own volition.

"Quit squirming." The Comedian spits on his palm and then closes his hand around them both, lets out a long, indulgent groan that makes Rorschach's toes curl and his stomach turn. "Okay, now." 

Rorschach braces one hand on the Comedian's shoulder, fingers spread over the red and white stripes of his spaulder. He doesn't think about what an American hero is doing, rutting in public like this. Instead, he uses the leverage to thrust fiercely into the Comedian's hand, over and over.

The Comedian grunts, grating him brutally with the friction from his gloves, and Rorschach finds that this may be over very soon. The Comedian has his free hand on the back of Rorschach's neck, bunching his mask in a way that makes him supremely angry, forcing his head around like he's paid for the privilege.

"Rorschach?" Nite Owl, distant but still way too close. "You out here, man?"

The Comedian makes a disgusted noise and squeezes, hard. 

Rorschach feels himself start to orgasm; it's come on sudden enough that he hasn't had to work on distancing himself from the sensation, and it passes through him almost painlessly. He wobbles back a pace, turns away so he doesn't soil the Comedian's uniform. The Comedian has no such compunction, spattering Rorschach's suit jacket. He grunts, zips up and shoulders past, only pausing to light up his cigar again. "Hey, Birdboy," he calls, voice reverberating off into the dark. A questioning noise echoes back, and he leers at Rorschach. "Better get cleaned up, don't want your boyfriend to be jealous."

In future, Rorschach thinks, as he fumbles desperately at his pants, in future he will just resolve things in his apartment.

"There you are." Nite Owl appears from around the corner as the Comedian saunters off, leaving an obnoxious chuckle in his wake. "What are you doing back here?"

Rorschach doesn't answer, just pulls his trench closed and ties the belt, encourages Nite Owl to walk to where the Archimedes is idling. If he can get through the rest of the night without his partner getting suspicious, then he will chalk this up to experience.

And never do it again.

Nite Owl prattles on about the meeting and Rorschach tunes him out, instead watching his fingers on the control panel; his hand as he gently squeezes the throttle and takes them skyward.


End file.
